The Last Bookaneer (36 page)

His eyes burned into me, causing me to stumble backward, nearly falling over some furniture and into a bronze sculpture of an Amazonian woman locked in battle with a leaping tiger. “I do not understand you. I give you the chance to be the first reader of this historic addition to literature, and you reject me. You, a lowly peddler!”

“Peddler?”

“Our journey together ended when I left you in the streets. Do you have brains enough left in your head to understand? I
left
you behind, left you with the empty-handed barnacles. Now you pop up again. You little pig. You dare make yourself a pest to me. You were nothing but an amusement while I was trapped on that ship. Did you invade Whiskey Bill's life like this, too, and Davenport's?”

“No . . .” I tried to protest.

He held the thick manuscript in front of me, then pushed it against my spectacles until the metal pinched the skin around my eyes. I asked him to stop, with no effect. The spear of the sculpture's female warrior pinched my back.

“Do you really think this is how you'll finish your friend Davenport's story? By taking this from me? What will you do in order to accomplish it, shoot me for it, stab me?”

“Of course not! You said—”

“Go on, try to take it! Try! No, coward, you cannot. If you ever speak to me again, if you even look at me, I'll tear you in half, am I understood?”

I was completely startled by the degree of his anger, even though I had seen it before directed to others. By this point, some publishing clerks, a male and two young females, had come from their desks to stare at the spectacle. “Belial, please,” I said with quiet embarrassment. “I really just supposed you would expect me to guess where you were going. . . . After all, you spoke of the chess pieces, of our roles in the match, the pawn and king, and I thought—”

“You were the pawn!” He pointed at my head with his cane and I thought of poor Tulagi, bent over with the life bleeding out of him.

I suppose I must have appeared greatly cowed by the memory of the deceased dwarf's pain, for Belial suddenly seemed satisfied with himself. His well-slimed tongue smacked his lips. Perhaps you notice that when I am happy, I chatter; when anxious or scared, still I chatter. It would be obvious to you, as a reasonable and assiduous young man, that I should have said no more in the face of this volatility. But I could not help it: “There was one last thing, though, something I thought about, Belial, after we parted, that might be of some help and importance to you—”

In one grand movement his broad back was turned on me and he marched away through the main door of the office, closing it in my face. I tried to make my suit look a little more decent, though it was wrinkled and had patches of sweat at odd angles, like streams coming to a common crossing. There was loud noise from outside, like a series of gunshots, but my attention was too consumed for the moment by what had just happened. I dropped myself onto a bench against the wall.

Only a few minutes later the same door opened again, revealing Belial. This time there was another man directly behind him. I could not yet see who he was because of the shadows thrown by the doorway.

“I know you asked that I not speak to you for a while, but, as I was saying, I realized there is one other thing I need to tell you,” I said to the bookaneer, as though he had returned in order to complete our conversation, or to apologize. “The dates. I believe while we were at sea we might have miscalculated.”

Now he stepped forward, closer to where I stood, or rather was pushed forward. The man behind him was a New York City policeman and his brown-gloved hand was encircling Belial's arm. Then yet another man, whom I can only describe as grimly mirthful, walked out behind the other two, holding the big manuscript under his arm.

“How dare you manhandle me! Do you know who I am?” Belial shouted, rearing back.

The policeman cracked his baton against Belial's face. “Don't care who you are, but you'll learn to talk with respect to one of our city's attorneys.”

The sounds from outside the windows fronting Broadway were renewed, sounds of missiles and rockets, popping and fizzing, sending pools of bright light over us. More pistols firing. Now the air smelled of gunpowder.

“Starting earlier and earlier, every year,” the attorney grumbled to his companion. “It's not even five o'clock, is it?”

“True enough, sir,” the policeman said.

“Full of patriotic feelings, as long as they can be noisy about it. Isn't that the way?”

“True, indeed.”

“Show me the warrant,” Belial was demanding of the two men. “Show it to me!” Blood trickled from his mouth onto his battered jaw.

The attorney had been searching through his papers and held one out for Belial. “Here you are, Mr. Lott.”

“It is the fourth,” Belial said to himself, reading from the paper. “Today is July fourth.” Then he turned to me. “
You
made me believe I had more time. You wanted to avenge Davenport's failure, however you could, even if it meant throwing away the result of this entire mission.”

“No, it's not true!”

I kept protesting as he was led away.

Within four months there would begin the trial you've visited where men and women alike would line up to glance at this specimen of the legendary breed. A bookaneer, snared and captive, a sight never before beheld and, I'd venture to say you've seen and heard enough to agree, a sight as sad as any imaginable. It makes me think of the great jaguar I saw one summer in a Paris zoo, pacing with his bounding steps, nowhere to leap.

What I remember most about this historic moment is watching the bookaneer as the bright, artificial lights filled the room and the noises from outside repeated themselves—
rat-tat-tat
-
boom
,
rat-tat-tat
-
boom
. As he turned to look at me over his shoulder, the expression on Belial's comely face grew darker and helpless, and the grand inner rage—you saw it for yourself in court—took hold. But I still believe, perhaps from naïveté or idealism, he knew his accusations against me were false and that his rage stemmed from realizing his general error. Had he envisioned me burning to death in that evidence room? Judge for yourself. Belial had already known before that day at Scribner's the bookaneers were finished—he had even come to accept it—but I think he did not realize that the world was not finished with the bookaneers; as recompense for the glory and excitement they had seized for years for themselves, all that life would be wrung out of him now. I still hear it all around me.

Rat-tat-tat.

Rat-tat-tat.

Rat-tat.

We were not meaning to deceive, most of us were as honorable and as ignorant as the youth themselves; but that does not acquit us of failings such as stupidity and jealousy, the two black spots in human nature which, more than love of money, are at the root of all evil.

J
.
M
.
B
ARRIE

No, friend, no. This is Samoa.

L
LOYD
O
SBOURNE

W
hen Mr. Fergins was describing to me Belial's arrest, he became so enthusiastic he even tried to imitate the sounds of fireworks that had filled the air that day from the publisher's office; “Rat-tat-tat!” Then the bookseller stopped. His head fell back onto his pillows. He appeared to be short of breath before breaking into harsh coughs. I was convinced that my greed to possess the whole story for myself had overtaxed him.

I poured him more water (I had filled the pitcher at the side of his bed during pauses and interruptions). The tired man's face turned red and he croaked a thank-you. Even when the coughing subsided, his throat plagued him, as if (as he described it) someone's hands were squeezed around it. I pleaded with him to try to remain still and searched for another blanket, as his rooms were drafty in the winter; before I could finish draping the blanket over him, he was asleep. For a horrible moment I feared that the act of telling the story had driven the life out of him. I did not move a muscle until I saw him breathing steadily.

Imagine a railway waiter; now imagine a railway waiter inside the august reading room at the Astor Library, reading up on the laws of copyright. Now add the stares directed at me. That was how I spent my two free afternoons the following week. I also began following the trial of the bookaneer Belial as closely as an outsider to law and to the case could. I read the short courtroom summaries published in the newspaper, which would be left on the seats of the train, and when possible, I would visit the court sessions myself, though I continued to find these technical and fruitless.

I knew Mr. Fergins would disapprove. He would worry I was breaking my promise to put the whole story out of my mind once he finished telling it. But, after all, I was just learning, just observing.

In speaking to some of those spectators who attended the case religiously, I learned more of the background that had led to the man's arrest. One of the prominent New York judges had, in an earlier position as an alderman, argued that copyright theft should be a criminal offense because it was an affront to the greatest tool possessed by mankind: the brain. This judge, a man named Salisbury, was half-English and had detested the theft of British literature by American publishers as an immoral example to the nation's youth. Although criminal provisions were not included in the new copyright legislation that was based on the international agreement signed at Berne, Judge Salisbury convinced the city's prosecutors to concoct a complicated bundle of charges tied with the new treaty to make an example of this notorious literary pirate: possession of stolen goods, fraud, unlawful importation of cargo, attempted larceny against the publishing firm. Copyright was just the beginning. The case of
New York v. Lott
would herald the start of this new era in protecting authors.

But the defense counsel was astute and the criminal charges could not be maintained, especially after the fire that nearly killed Mr. Fergins—the cause of which remained undiscovered—also destroyed or badly damaged almost half the evidence against the prisoner. Belial was released by the court after months of useless hearings and motions. In the six months since the July arrest, various authors and publishers had brought private suits against the bookaneer in civil court. But none of the other cases ever moved forward because after he was freed from the nearby Tombs he vanished from the jurisdiction. His disappearance, mentioned only in passing in the
New York Evening World
, came as no surprise to me. Though I had never exchanged a word with the notorious bookaneer, I almost felt I knew him through my visits and through the honest, spectacled eyes of Mr. Fergins. I was even a little gratified that the fellow had acted just as I expected.

I swore to myself I would not pester Mr. Fergins for further information after he seemed to have become so worn out. Just a few days after New Year's, Mr. Fergins began reappearing on our train route. The first day of his return I was stacking dishes and did not have the chance to speak with him at any length before he had to go. He did tell me that he felt much better; in fact he said he had “never felt stronger.” The next occasion when we were both present, his time was monopolized by a loud bibliophile who was lecturing him about the flaws of various editions in his cart. We barely exchanged greetings. I decided to call on him at his boardinghouse. Finding him out, I left a note, and I could not help myself, despite promises to myself and to him: in a postscript I included only one of the many queries I was itching to ask.

“Was it Samoan,” asked my note, “that the bookaneer spoke to you that first day at the courthouse?”

The note sent to me in return read simply: “My dear Mr. Clover. Perhaps! Cordially and gratefully yours, as always, E. C. Fergins.”

Then he was gone.

 • • • 

I
STILL HAD SO
MUCH
to ask about Davenport, about Belial, about Vao and Stevenson . . . If only I had taken note of the postmark on Mr. Fergins's letter in response to my note asking about the bookaneer speaking Samoan, maybe I could have found him. It never occurred to me to save it, for I fully expected to see him soon. But Mr. Fergins never again stepped aboard our train. After three weeks of worrying about his health, I made the trek again to the bookseller's rooms, slipping and gliding across sidewalks encrusted with ice. The rooms were empty. Not a single book or even a pamphlet left behind. The landlady would not say where he had gone. Maybe she did not know. I paused at the street door before exiting. There, in an otherwise empty iron stand, was the gaily striped umbrella of Mr. Fergins's, the one that had been with him in Samoa; I picked it up, studied the dark crimson spotting on its wings, chilled to think of its source. I let it fall freely down into the stand with a clang, annoying the old lady one last time.

Remembering those last, brief meetings on the train, I began to wonder if the bookseller had been avoiding me. Our eyes had met as usual, he had whistled and smiled as usual, but there had been distance and hesitation in his demeanor. Toward the end of his narration of the Stevenson affair, he had recounted telling Belial that his time in New York would be temporary. He had never intended on staying here forever. Still, I never expected him to vanish.

One day, a few weeks after discovering his departure, I was walking by the courthouse. I recognized one of the men outside. He had a beaver hat, a distinctive set of lines around his eyes, as though someone had painted them, and a full, flabby chin; he had that air of importance seen around a courthouse. I had seen him while I was helping Mr. Fergins during his long convalescence, and before that glimpsed him with Mr. Fergins on these same steps. He was walking with a purposeful and rapid stride in the direction of a waiting carriage. I took a deep breath before I followed him.

“Excuse me, sir,” I said, and had to test my resolve when he gave no reply and I had to repeat it in a louder voice.

“‘Your honor,' boy!” he roared, then kept walking after a sidelong glance at me.

“Your honor, very sorry,” I said, trying to keep up. “Your honor, excuse the interruption, if I could speak with you for a moment—”

“What could
you
possibly have to speak with me about?”

“It's about Edgar Fergins. You called on him at his boardinghouse when I was there.”

He slowed down, then stopped, jiggled his chin and made a noise of agreement at me. “That bookseller is a fortunate man.”

“Because he recovered from his injuries?”

“Thank goodness. But I meant he is fortunate to return to London. A much more cultivated place for a bookman. Some of the finest editions in my collection came from my time in London society.”

“Are you Justice Salisbury?” I asked after listening to his accent and remembering the Anglophile judge I had heard about, the one who first hatched Belial's arrest as an example to all copyright thieves.

“Indeed I answer to that name,” he said, so proud of the fact he did not seem to wonder how I knew. “Do not tell me your name, boy. I have an appointment and I haven't the time to hear it.”

“Did you help arrange for Mr. Fergins to review evidence in the case of the great book pirate that was later dismissed?”

“Do you see this courthouse?” I nodded that I indeed saw the massive, three-story building that overshadowed the entire park. He went on: “The funds that were raised to build this very building were also used to line the pockets of city officials, friends of mine in many cases, some of whom still rot for it in the Tombs for their foolish corruption. But what of those so-called bookaneers? They stole a much rarer resource than money; they stole the creative ideas plucked right out of the best minds on both sides of the Atlantic—scoundrels like that man we had in chains and, from what we learned, even some depraved women made a practice of it, a virtual profession of dishonesty. Yet, nobody saw fit to punish them, not even to try. I tried, hand to God, I tried. I have contributed to the most humbling of tasks, rebuilding a bridge connecting two great lands. Did we fail to secure justice? I shall answer it this way. When I have the honor to be Senator Salisbury, I will proudly declare I tried to give one of those pirates what he deserved.”

After his speech, he continued on his way without a farewell. He may have been half-English, but he was all New Yorker.

I shouldn't blame Mr. Fergins's departure for the fact that the romance of the railroad was lost to me, especially since so many train routes had already been permanently unhooking their restaurant cars to save money. Maybe I have a better way to put it, which is this: once reading books lost a little romance, so did living in New York City and, in some related way, so did being a railroader. I suppose Mr. Fergins's story had a part in my moving on from this era of life, though at the time the reverse seemed true. It seemed as though Mr. Fergins, having found in me a willing recipient for his narrative, had finally freed himself from the memory he carried around of those events and had been able to return to his humdrum but contented existence in London without another thought.

I cannot remember ever conceiving of a book as a piece of property before meeting Mr. Fergins. Or if I ever had stopped to think such a thing, it was that the book I held in my hands belonged to
me
, or to Mr. Fergins, who had loaned it to me, or to my father, or a public library. I suppose it might have occurred to me that the book belonged to the author, too, but this would have seemed remote, something that mattered only in the past. Now I understood that intellectual property, as it was called in the language of the law, was always in danger and the reason began with my own impressions. It had seemed natural and right that the contents, the ideas should belong to me as much as to their creator, and in a nutshell that explained the whole existence and history of the bookaneers.

I had trouble looking at a book the same way I had before Mr. Fergins told me his incredible tales. He once said to me that books can make you do things without your realizing. For example, he said, when a book describes someone opening his mouth slightly and licking the outlines of his lips, you cannot help but touch your tongue to your own lips. If it is a bit more specific, say, describing the tongue running along each tooth under your upper lip, your own tongue will perform the act involuntarily sooner or later. A trivial example, of course, but he cautioned me that the pages of a book can influence our thinking and our actions in ways we never comprehend, and that the world of publishing has always been well aware of it. I have revered books, but now I never read a page without sensing the various demons fighting for control of the words, control of me. There were times when I cursed myself for it, and cursed Mr. Fergins for peeling the ink from the page and showing me what lay between.

A new book cart, smaller and creakier, appeared on the train before the winter was out. The vendor's New York accent seemed strange and modern when expecting Mr. Fergins's lively and soothing English. This impostor's cart never made a stop, never even slowed down, unless a paying customer snapped fingers or waved a hand. This made Mr. Fergins's removal from my life sting more.

Another few months went by. There used to be a small bookstore in the city, not far from where I was enjoying what passed for outdoors in that metropolis. In the window, I noticed the name Robert Louis Stevenson on a book under a placard announcing, “Newly Published!” I picked it up straightaway, expecting that Stevenson's masterpiece, the source of the battle between the two greatest bookaneers, had finally been published, and would give me some answers. As I held it in my hands, Belial's face, his proud and repulsive scowl, appeared in my mind. But this was no novel at all. It was called
A Footnote to History
, a long essay of sorts on Samoa. I could only read a few pages in the store before the glare of the bookseller paralyzed me. Mr. Fergins told me a bookseller can determine almost immediately whether one who enters his store can afford to buy a book or not, and, as usual, I fell into the latter category. Before I returned it to the table, I happened to notice the name of the publisher, Charles Scribner's Sons of New York—the same firm where Belial had been taken by the police.